Annie Wang - The People’s Republic of Desire

"Do you have a condom?"

"Yes. I do." Diana planned ahead, and earlier that day bought a box of condoms at a nearby store.

Their moment of passion is building up when the unexpected happens. The condom doesn't fit: it's too small. "Gosh, this part of my body is American, not Chinese," Mr. Lee chuckles. "The Chinese have always believed that the size of a man's nose reflects the size of his pecker. With my Western nose, it seems to make sense."

"Gee, if the size doesn't fit, I wonder what other foreign expatriates use in Beijing. Do they need to carry boxes of condoms from home every time?" Diana is frustrated. "Can we do it without a condom?" she asks.

"No, we can't. My wife says I have to wear condoms whenever I'm with other women."

"What?! You're married?" Diana is so stunned that it takes a minute for the anger to set in.

"Yes." Mr. Lee answers. Diana later tells me that he answers her question calmly without a trace of embarrassment.

Diana's fury finally emerges. "What are you doing here, then?"

"Lots of men in Hong Kong have xiao mi – mistresses on the mainland! What's the problem?"

"How can your wife tolerate you having affairs?"

"My wife understands. She is fine with it. If other taitais from Hong Kong can put up with affairs, so can she."

"But how can your wife be from Hong Kong? I thought you said you aren't attracted to Asian women because they are too materialistic."

"One good thing about materialistic women is that they care more about how much money you allow them to spend than how many affairs you have. As long as she can still buy her Prada handbags and Gucci sunglasses at Pacific Place, she is happy."

Diana can't stand it anymore. She kicks Mr. Lee out of her apartment. She calls me, telling me everything in detail. Eventually, she says, "Niuniu, I'm grateful to the Chinese condom manufacturer for saving me from becoming Mr. Lee's latest mainland mistress. "

"Do you still want a Chinese man?" I ask her on the phone.

She pauses for a second, and then says, "What is the Chinese word – couhe? Perhaps one of those Chinese dissident artists might be okay after all."

XIAO MI: "Little secret," slang term for mistress.

TAITAI: Wife, usually one who doesn't have to work to support the family.

MAIZIDIAN: A funky artistic, counterculture district in eastern Beijing

COUHE: "To match and combine"; settling for second-best.

I come back to Beijing from a small southern village where I covered a story on how villagers made a living through drug trafficking. Before I even get inside my courtyard house, I discover that someone has torn the badge off my Jeep, which I have left parked outside in the alley. There are also a couple of scratches down the side of the car, and someone has thrown a banana peel on the front windscreen. It is obviously a deliberate act of vandalism. My mother Wei Mei was right: it s not safe to park a car in a Beijing alley. This is the first time I have encountered something like this since moving out of the diplomatic apartment compound. In a country where people used to be equally poor, it's hard not to hate the rich – I'm not rich, I simply own an automobile. What if this was not a car, but a horse, a living, breathing animal – would it suffer the same treatment? I wonder.

I drag open the door to my courtyard and go in. I'm startled to find Lulu sitting there under the grapevine. Why is she in my house? Isn't she working today?

She is wearing a Chinese-style jacket with the collar turned up, and her hair hangs down messily. There is an open bottle of rice wine on the table next to her. She is swigging from the wine bottle and tugging at her own hair.

"Lulu, what's the matter?" I rush over. I know immediately it must have something to do with Ximu.

Lulu raises her head, her eyes full of tears. She bites her lip. Her expression is flat, ruthless, and hateful.

She suddenly stands and opens up a big colorful biscuit box beside her. It is full of ashes.

Those ashes make my hair stand on end.

"I burned all of my diaries," Lulu murmurs. "All those years, what did I write? It was all about Ximu. How to love him, understand him, wait for him, tolerate him, appreciate him, adore him, be his loyal audience. When I was hurt, I healed myself at home, and when my hurt was healed, I went back to him so he could hurt me again. All those years, everyone around me was going overseas, getting married, making money, having a career. And me? Other than him, my world has nothing. I used to think my love was so great, but only now do I realize that with all that loving, all I loved was a joke. I'm just a joke."

"Lulu, tell me, what has that bastard done?" I hold Lulu's hand and look at her, worried and distressed.

"It's not worth it. This kind of man is not even wo rth a beating." She waves her hand and shakes her head violently.

"Tell me, what has happened?" I press her for the story.

"What happened?" Lulu laughs coldly. "Something I should have discovered long ago. I was just an idiot. I always believed him. He said his marriage with his wife was a failure, and it was enough for his lifetime. He said he was an artist. Artists must get inspiration from the bodies of different women, so he couldn't be a monogamist. The funny thing is that there was a fool like me to believe his bullshit. I listened to him so adoringly. I accepted him staying married and fooling around with other women. He lived with other women, and I even tolerated that. I said to myself, successful men need space."

"He isn't that successful! Going to study in France is nothing special! It seems like he couldn't make it there, so he had to come back home," I say.

"Sometimes he spoke about his own dreams and ambitions for hours. He said of all the women, I was the only one who understood him. I was so flattered. I listened attentively, I applauded. If Ximu is Sartre, then I can be his Simone de Beauvoir! It didn't matter if we didn't get married. Our love had long ago surpassed such a wo rldly th ing."

"Didn't you know they were all excuses? Men will say all the romantic, sweet-talking stuff in the world to get a woman into bed," I scold Lulu.

"When people are in love, when they are madly in love, they are fools. Don't you remember Jeremy Irons in Damage?

He was a successful politician. Was he stupid? But in the end, didn't love leave him with nothing? Some people are demons – like Anna in Damage. If you love them, it's like swallowing poison, because for them you would be willing to climb razor-sharp mountains and swim in a sea of fire."

Loving them is like swallowing poison. Aren't Beibei and I the same? After Chairman Hua's betrayal, Beibei has decided to never again believe in love. She seeks comfort in the arms of young men. And I? My past with Len is like a sleeping forest. I don't talk about it with anyone.

"Psychologists say that some kinds of love are a sickness, an uncontrollable obsession," I say.

"Perhaps I'm one of those women who easily become obsessed," Lulu says. "The woman in Ricky Martin's song 'Livin' la Vida Loca' is a devil woman who runs men around in circles. Beibei often blames me, saying that I'm pretty, why can't I find a man and run him around in circles? I'm always the scapegoat. I let my girlfriends do the worrying for me. But I just don't know how to be manipulative!"

Lulu continues her story, "Recently, Ximu had disappeared for over a month. I missed him so bad, missed his big beard, his fiery eyes, his passion and wildness in bed. So, I phoned his mobile. No one answered. I knew I shouldn't have phoned, because he didn't let me ring him. Later on a woman phoned my house and asked if I was looking for Ximu.